Bitter Memories
by ArtemisDreamer
Summary: Just six months after inheriting the mantle of the Batman, Richard Grayson must face a woman who shakes his firm belief in his mentor's staunch ideals to its core. Does she speak the truth? Genderbent Gotham Universe


Bitter Memories

To her credit, the blonde woman did not scream when the cowled figure of the Batman came crashing through her seventh-storey window.

As a matter of fact, she didn't even flinch.

Instead, she turned her head from where she lay, reclining on a careworn suede sofa, and fixed the intruder with her frosty blue gaze.

"You've been expecting me," the vigilante began. "Of course you have. After all, no-one evades the long arm of the law forever."

"I've evaded it for seven long years, kid, not counting all those years when I was actually working," she replied evenly.

The Batman seemed uncomfortable, shifting on his feet as he eyed the woman as one might a poisonous snake, unsure whether it might strike. Embarrassingly, she sensed his uneasiness, her pink mouth curving with repressed amusement.

"Don't be like that, Greyson," she smirked. "You've caught me. I'm not going anywhere fast. Give you my word."

"Since when has your word meant anything?" he asked, unnerved. Bruce hadn't told him that she had any knowledge of the true identities of the Bat family, never mind that she would toss this information around so freely.

"It hasn't," she replied, twirling one blonde braid absently between tapered fingers, "but I'm not in any fit state to run. Sure, in your father's time I might have fought, but I'm beyond that now. Maybe I'm too dead tired, or maybe it's just because there's nothing left to fight for."

"Nothing left to fight for?" the vigilante asked, increduality tinging his voice. "Bruce called you the guardian angel of Villainkind! He said that as long as there was crime in Gotham, you would be there to support it. He said-"

"He flatters me." The woman interjected, cutting him off sharply. "He flatters me, but he doesn't understand me. You don't either. Why don't you take a seat, kid, let me explain."

"Um…" the new Batman stalled, uncertain of how to proceed.

"Sit."

Her tone was commanding, now, and precluded question, so the imposing man strode across the living area to a rickety wooden chair and obediently sat. The chair strained beneath his weight and the weight of his armor, groaning ominously. He allowed his eyes to scan the woman opposite him for concealed weapons or tensed muscles that might indicate her treachery, but saw nothing remotely suspicious. She hadn't been lying about her incapacity to fight – her left leg was encased from knee to toe in a bulky plaster cast.

"Good boy. Now, where was I?"

"Saying how neither my father nor I understood you," he replied automatically.

"Exactly. Yes, I was on the side of the villains. I was their henchwoman, their savior if you want to get poetic, but of course I gave it up. Of course I don't fight for them anymore. Think about it. Who are your most formidable opponents?"

"Gangs and the organized crime syndicates," he answered honestly, uncertain of what her question was getting at.

"Gangs and the mob. Of course. But I didn't fight for gangs and the mob, kid. No I didn't. I fought for your father's greatest enemies. The costumed criminals."

Richard Greyson's eyes widened slightly. Apparently Bruce had been withholding information about this woman – He had assumed that she was a former high-level enforcer, not a remnant of the bad old days.

She noted his expression of surprise, obscured as it was by his cowl. "He didn't tell you, then?" she prodded. "Of course not. But do you know why? Do you want to know why?"

The cornered man nodded numbly, eyes shifting rapidly around the corners of the darkened, dingy room, lit only by the unsteady flickering of a single standing lamp.

"Because he didn't want to tell you." She continued vehemently.

"Tell me what?" he asked, half curious, half apprehensive, wondering if she was as crazy as the masters she had served.

"Tell you what happened to them all. The costumed criminals. Two-Face and the Joker and them. Didn't want to explain why they all dropped out of sight, disappeared. Didn't want to tell you what he did to them all."

"Excuse me, what he did to them? What could he have done that they hadn't already done to themselves through their own poor choices? He only ever tried to stop them for their own good and the good of the people of Gotham." His tone was one of resentment, conveying clearly his admiration of the original Batman's work.

"So you don't want to know." It wasn't a question.

"No. I'm here to arrest you, not to besmirch a great man's reputation by allowing you to spew your nonsense." Richard snapped, finally getting something of a hold on himself. He had allowed himself to become too familiar with the clearly deranged woman, and had thus been distracted from his ultimate purpose here.

"It's not nonsense, boy. I have nice shiny proof and everything." She said, her tone one of mocking amusement.

"Proof?" His curiosity was getting the better of him again. After all, he had always longed to know what gruesome skeletons lay in Bruce's closet. There had to be something, didn't there?

"Proof." She affirmed. "Now if you can sit and listen quietly, I'll tell you their story. Stories, really. They deserve the individual attention."

The vigilante nodded silently. This wasn't what he had come for, but it was what he (secretly) wanted.

"Good. Now first we have the Scarecrow and the Riddler. He never told you that they were in a relationship, did he? Well they were. Almost inseparable in the later years. But that all went to hell after he 'accidentally' killed the Riddler. Accidentally my ass. Multiple lacerations and a thirty-storey fall. Does that sound accidental to you? Don't answer that. Anyway, he covered it up well, real well, but anyone who knew a damn thing about the underworld knew it had been on purpose. The Riddler got on his last nerve, see? Drove him… batty."

Batman winced. That was a downright painful pun – had this woman ever worked for the Joker? Still, before he could comment, she was already continuing with her harebrained, downright paranoid explanations.

"Anyway, so just six months down the line, the Scarecrow is found dead." She continued. "Hanged, don't you know it. Of course, word was that it was an internal killing, that the criminal underworld had risen up and done the job. At least that was how they covered it up. It was suicide. Just couldn't live without the Riddler. And Lord knows what a hell of a cover up job that was, after such a public hanging. Off the hour hand of the Gotham clock tower of all places. Well, that's what Bruce's money could do."

Richard's mouth gaped open, uncertain of where to begin his rebuttal. This was sheer insanity… wasn't it? Though, if he had truly believed that, he would have said something by now. Interrupted in some way. As it was however, he sat spellbound by her words.

The woman paused briefly, before continuing with her rambling tale. "Moving on we've got Two-Face and the Joker. I'm sure you know that they're both down at the funny farm, in Arkham. The question is, though, do you know why?"

He nodded. "Of course. They're both criminally insane. Murderers. Or did you really think that I was that ignorant?"

"Ignorant? Hardly. You know why they're there, but not why they've stayed put, instead of breaking out every other month like they used to. That's because they can't. They're incapacitated, thanks to your daddy. The Joker's now a left-side paraplegic. Wheelchair-bound and unable to speak coherently. Two-Face, though, Two-Face's problem isn't physical, it's mental. A mind that's been shattered into so many conflicting personality fragments, that, coin or no coin, there is just no way for 'them' to make a single decision. Not even the decision to eat or drink. Completely incapacitated. And it's all thanks to dear old Brucie. So, kid, is there anyone else you'd like to know about?"

The vigilante hesitated for a moment. Could he really bear to hear more of these decidedly morbid and depressing fallacies? At last, however, his thirst for knowledge won out. "The Penguin," he said decisively "and Poison Ivy."

A chuckle escaped her lips. "Cobblepot, eh? Bankrupted by Wayne Industries' takeover of corrupt companies, and forced out of the Penguin's lofty position in the underworld. Took to living on the streets like a common bum, but last I heard the poor sucker was killed by some drunken asshole with a knife and more bravado than he knew what to do with. A right mess, but nothing for daddy dearest to cover up. No-one cares if a common homeless vagrant dies in Gotham."

She paused for breath, scrutinising the decidedly horrified expression on Richard's face. This pleased her. It meant that he was taking her word at face value, not needing to see the evidence to be convinced.

"As for Ivy, don't you ever read the paper? Nearly nine years ago, a tree appeared in the center of Gotham Central Park. It was Ivy. Her powers went nuts after she was severely wounded by the original Batbreath and turned her into a real live oak. The city had the thing cut down with the largest chainsaws they had, thrown through the nearest wood chipper and summarily burned. While we're on the subject of burning, I'm sure you knew what happened to Catwoman? Killed when her penthouse apartment caught fire. She was asleep at the time. No-one can prove anything of course, but the smart money's on Bruce Wayne striking the match."

At last, the unfortunate man before her found his voice. "You're lying." He snapped, eyes blazing with fury.

"Lying?" She echoed hollowly. "Kid, you wish I was lying. I'm not. It all came down to his rule, you see. He could never openly kill his enemies, not in any way that could be traced back to his actions, so he engineered accidents and drove them to their deaths. He knew, like everyone knew, that Gotham would be better off without them. He confessed it to me. The last time he came to catch me. Seven years ago. He was piss drunk, Richard, and he told me everything."

"Drunk?" he asked incredulously, the rise of his eyebrows hidden by his cowl.

"As a skunk," she confirmed. "So much so that I got the drop on him as he finally got the wits to attack me, knocked him out and left him in an alley to rot. That's when I found out who he was… It wasn't exactly hard to infer the identities of all his little Batlings, yourself included, from there on end."

He waved away the words with an irate flap of one black-gloved hand. "You said you had proof." He growled. "Show it to me." If there was really any sort of damning evidence, his perception of his father and mentor would be permanently shattered.

"Sure." The woman reached over to the sideboard that stood adjacent to the sofa, and, extracting a cassette tape from one of its drawers, tossed it carelessly in the direction of the Dark Night. "Listen to that. It's pretty much the same lot as what I told you."

Greyson shuddered as he caught the tape and held it at arm's length, as one might a particularly unpleasant insect. Jamming it into his utility belt he stood, handcuffs in hand, and moved to tower over the still-reclining former henchwench.

"How you have a tape of this conversation… I doubt that I even want to know."

"Elementary blackmail," she replied. "Once I got the picture that he wasn't all there, I figured I might as well get him to say things and see what I could sell it for down the road."

"That's really quite the story. Anyway –" his tone shifted "I'm going to have to arrest you now." His voice assumed the customary deep growl that many associated with the intimidating vigilante. "Come quietly and you will not be injured."

In response, the woman held out her hands, slender white wrists pressed together. "Take me," she responded dully. "I've got no cause, no job, no kids, my husband left me because of you lot, and I'm a gimp to boot."

He nodded grimly and reached forwards to clasp the tempered steel restraints to her flesh.

That night, at precisely 1:35 am, Issa Lynn, henchwoman to most every costumed criminal who had ever menaced Gotham, and guardian angel of Villainkind, was led from her apartment complex into the confines of the Batmobile.

Twelve years to the day later, at precisely 7:42 am, she hung herself from a bootlace in the confines of her holding cell at Gotham PD, leaving one final death on the conscience of the illustrious vigilante that had been Bruce Wayne.

FIN


End file.
